


That's better

by TeaHouseMoon



Series: Ficlets [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fucking, Jealous John, Jealousy, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, No Plot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, fucking and grunting and sweating, just fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-06-03 11:55:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6609778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaHouseMoon/pseuds/TeaHouseMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>from a conversation with PoppyAlexander: John and Sherlock fuck in a room, in the darkness, up against a wall. Also, jealous!John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That's better

**Author's Note:**

> Short ficlet written and posted entirely from my phone, so forgive typos/weird formatting. Hope you enjoy!

The room is dark, quiet, empty. Only light filtering through the thin window, the mist from the lamp post outside; only noise, their heaving breaths, their grunts, and moans.

John pushes his wide palm against the concrete wall, it stings under the skin as he leverages himself for another thrust, and then another, and another, and another. His breath comes out in great huffs against the patch of skin under his mouth, every violent jerk of his hips makes the exhales deeper, the grunts louder. It just spurs him on even more to see the body against him move, jerk back, the hand braced right under his against the same rough wall and the shoulder blades, smooth and shiny with exertion.

John wants to bite down on that skin, but he can't, he's too focused, he wants too much and the fucking feels so good, like that, rough, up on their feet. He closes his eyes and grunts again, lets out a groan. Wants Sherlock to make noise, too.

The next thrust is even harder; against him, Sherlock moans louder, his head jerks and falls forward a bit between his arms, an inch from the wall.

“Ah, John!”

John wants to slow down but he can't. He's possessed; he wants pleasure, he wants more pleasure, he wants to come and he wants to come in Sherlock, deep inside his body. He wants to keep going and he wants to mark him and he wants Sherlock to scream, he wants Sherlock to make noise, he wants Sherlock to push back against him and to shut up and take it and scream and come and let John come inside him.

He wants to tell him, but he can't; that's not how John is. John fucks and takes pleasure and gives pleasure; he doesn't talk. He doesn't ask.  
He wants to kiss Sherlock but this is not the time. He will kiss him, after, when Sherlock is exhausted and docile and obedient, and waiting with closed eyelids and swollen, beautiful mouth. Then John will kiss him, and it will be warm, deep, breathless.

Right now, though, he wants to come. He wants to fuck and he wants to come, and he thrusts, faster now, faster. He moans, and he wasn't expecting it; he almost loses purchase on the wall but he braces his palms again, and thrusts. He can feel sweat on his forehead and cheeks but he doesn't stop; he exhales loudly against Sherlock’s shoulder, against the side of his throat, where sweaty curls are sticking to the skin now. Sherlock is tense, he's so close, and he's breathing so hard. His body has stopped pushing back and now just accommodates John’s, and John knows he should touch him but right know – fuck, fuck - he's so close, himself, that he can think of nothing else.

“Touch yourself,” John growls against the side of that long throat. “Fuck your hand for me. Come on.” He never uses expletives, not in front of Sherlock, never in his ordinary life but right now it's needed, it's necessary.

Sherlock is trembling, as he sacrifices a hand braced against the wall to use it to touch himself, like John asked. He moans, and his body spasms; it feels delicious around John’s cock, and John thinks he could go insane from it.

“Want to feel you come,” he growls against skin. Sherlock turns towards him, just an inch, and John knows he's offering his mouth. John doesn't kiss, can't kiss; he can just bite, the lower lip, on the side. He groans at another strong contraction in Sherlock’s body.

Sherlock is coming a few seconds after, body rigid, a long, low moan from his throat as he stops his hand, leans his head against his bicep – his arm still supports him against the wall – breathes heavy. John fucks him through it, fast and deep, so tight – and then he comes, too, with a long groan, it feels good, it feels so good. So good.

Fuck, it feels so good.

John finds that his eyes are used to the darkness when he opens them, minutes later, when they both can take full breaths again and tremble a bit less.  
John pulls out slowly, watches Sherlock grimace a little. John nudges his hip so that Sherlock will turn around.

“Are you alright.” Sherlock nods.

John kisses him now. It's a slow kiss; tender. Deep, but careful. A reward, a praise. You were amazing; you felt so good.  
John likes lots of saliva and lots of contact when he kisses; he licks, strokes with his tongue. Sherlock has learnt quickly and he kisses back just the way John likes.

It's hard to separate, but they need to go.  
John looks down as he pulls his clothes back on, garment by garment.  
Sherlock does the same, but of course, it takes him longer to get dressed.

John watches him from under his eyelids, the corner of his eyes. The darkness doesn't stop him from liking what he sees: Sherlock looks beautiful. He always looks beautiful, but after sex even more so. Mussed waves in his hair, kiss swollen lips – John can't see it now, but he knows that after sex, Sherlock’s cheeks flush, his skin glows. The smell of them, their bodies, still lingers strong, and John inhales, sniffs stiffly; Sherlock is finally done, fully clothed once again, and gives him a look.

“Your hair.” John only says, in a low growl. Sherlock hesitates; John clears his throat, leans against the door.  
He's not letting either of them out of that room until Sherlock sorts out his disheveled curls. They need to look tidier; Sherlock looks way too well shagged right now. Way too attractive. Too fuckable. Other people will want him, and there is no way John is allowing that.

“Neck, too.” Sherlock’s throat is bare, and begging to be bitten. John clears his throat again. His eyes flash as he looks on, as Sherlock buttons his shirt collar, snug against his skin.

That's better.


End file.
